The Hearts of the Falmer (3)
by robinwitch1
Summary: Chapter 5, "Left Behind," and Chapter 6, "Breaking the Silent." Knight-Paladin Gelebor's reflections on the reconstruction of Hidden Valley are interrupted by a mysterious message, and Gjord Glassfist's attempts to get information from the old sellsword in Riften bear fruit, but in a way that leaves Gjord uneasy about his employers and their motives.


_The Hearts of the Falmer_, Chapter Five

**Left Behind**

Knight-Paladin Gelebor stood on the balcony behind the Chantry wayshrine, watching the sun rise. It was where his brother Vythur had died, and where he had said farewell to the Dragonborn and Serana, so many years ago now. He had never met either of them again, though they sent the occasional message, usually concerning some relic of Snow Elf civilization that one of them had discovered or heard about. Gelebor smiled to himself. After all, where else could they send it? He was still the only Snow Elf anyone knew existed. The sole survivor, the oddity. A living relic of an age that seemed forever dead.

He was ageless – as ageless as a vampire, he thought ironically, and shook his head. That was Auriel's doing, he guessed. Vythur should have talked to him instead of forging that crazy prophecy for reasons even he couldn't understand or articulate clearly. They could have worked something out. It had been a test, he knew now, one that he had passed and Vythur had failed. Vythur had said so himself, nearly every time they met.

Vythur had visited his brother in dreams, several times over the years, only saying a few words as they walked through the dim empty forests of Hidden Valley together. Not angry, but apologetic. Reassuring him that Auriel did indeed have a plan, and that he, Gelebor, was central to it. Now he had to wait for the next step, the next development, and in the mean time do what he could to rebuild.

The first time that Gelebor had heard the injunction to rebuild, he had been puzzled. It had taken him literally years to clear even the Chantry of mortal remains and dispose of them decently. Did Auriel expect him to raise columns and restore thick stone walls by force of will and persistence alone, while at the same time keeping watch over the entrance to the Valley and the way-shrines? _Faith_, he had reminded himself. _Always faith._ If the gods command something, sooner or later they provide the means. And not many months later, those means began to appear on the doorstep of the entering wayshrine he watched over night and day, in forms he could never have imagined.

The first messenger of Auriel's grand design had been a Khajiit, of all mortal creatures. Gelebor's initial reaction was surprise, and an anger he found it difficult to conceal. Despite all that had taken place, this was still a shrine, not a tourist trap. At first, he suspected that the Dragonborn or Serana had talked too much, and that Hidden Valley had found its way onto a list of quaint and fascinating sightseeing spots for the bold and inquisitive traveler. But it wasn't like that at all, S'Mojnir reassured him. He had never heard of anyone else trying to come here. As far as he knew, it was mentioned in no guidebook and appeared on no map. He himself had been told of its existence in private, and guided there as a pilgrim, because of a vow he had made.

In Elsweyr, S'Mojnir had been a stonemason. He had suffered for years from a malignant skin infection, he told Gelebor, and had been near death when he had visited a shrine to Alkosh – the "dragon cat," god of time, who is Akatosh to men and Auriel to elves – and had been told to venerate the sun and expose his bare, diseased skin to its full power, instead of concealing his affliction. He had done so, thinking "with shamefully little faith" that at least it would kill him more quickly, but instead he was cured within two weeks, skin healed over and fur beginning to grow back. When he had returned to the shrine of Alcosh to give thanks and offer recompense, he had been told to visit the temples to the sun god all across Tamriel, and serve each in a way and for a time he considered fitting. He had learned of the road here not from tavern gossip or loose talk, but from a vision on the day he crossed from Cyrodiil into Skyrim. Now, he asked in conclusion, in Gelebor's opinion was there anything in the Valley that needed the attention of an experienced stoneworker?

Gelebor had smiled then, for the first time, and led S'Mojnir to the entrance wayshrine.

"As a matter of fact, there _is _something..."

In the end, S'Mojnir had stayed in Hidden Valley seven years, telling Gelebor that Alcosh had appeared to him in a dream and told him he should go no further, that the greatest need was here. In that time, S'Mojnir mapped and sketched the entire valley and every Elven structure and ruin it contained, in minute and precise detail, drawing up tentative plans for the restoration of each and lists of the material needed and problems to be anticipated. He was watched always, from a distance, by the Betrayed and their thralls, at first out of fear, changing over the months and years to a sort of cautious fascination. Gelebor had been concerned for his safety at first, but S'Mojnir had reassured him that Alcosh would not lead him all the way from the warm sands of Elsweyr to a snowy valley in Skyrim just to be killed by some of the people he came here to help. _Faith_, Gelebor thought, and smiled to himself again.

S'Mojnir had been the first of a steady trickle of pilgrims who had arrived since him, to spend months, years, or even decades in Hidden Valley, step by step bringing it closer to its original condition. Most had been mer of one variety or another, even some orcs, but in the end all of the Ten Races had been represented. The only thing that the volunteers had in common was their shared devotion to Auriel, in whatever form and name He manifested Himself in their cultures.

With this as the work force, rebuilding had proceeded slowly but steadily. The largest of the fallen pillars and blocks still resisted any effort to return them to their proper places – they were simply too heavy and cumbersome. However, one of the volunteers presently at work on the ruins, a Dark Elf, had devised an ingenious scheme to cut these remaining pieces into manageable chunks and then reassemble them in place, holding everything together with a metal framework and a bonding mortar of her own invention. Three years ago, they had done a number of small-scale test repairs on the most exposed parts of the Chantry. The repaired sections seemed to be standing up against the winter's cold, the unpredictable cycle of frost and thaw, so in a few months they would begin using this method for the last and most difficult repairs. It would still be a very gradual process, one that would take many years to complete, but the Great Hall of the Chantry, collapsed by Vythur in the last moments of his futile struggle with the Dragonborn and Serana, was going to rise again.

How would he feel on that day, when all was finally done? There would have to be a ceremony. Hymns. A sermon. A sermon by him, Gelethor realized. The thought was intensely depressing.

What could he say to his faithful but motley construction crew? What blessings could he use to recommend them to Auriel's favor? And what would he ask for himself, to make up for the waiting, year upon year, until the Sun finally rose on Hidden Valley again to shine on everything spoiled made new, everything broken made whole again?

Gelethor suddenly realized that there was only one gift he desired from Auriel. To give the responsibility for Hidden Valley to someone else, and then allow him to die. All the rest of his kind were long deceased, and he was mortally tired of being in exile.

More than anything else, he wanted to go home.

But there was no one to take his place. If he died, would Auriel choose a High Elf, an Orc, an Argonian to succeed him? All these and all the rest of the Ten Races had served Him with perfect faith here, in the work that was so near completion. All would be forever welcome to come and be blessed by a sunlight that melted away any division of origin or culture. Still, the Arch-Curate had always been a Snow Elf. That was an immutable constant. And that meant him, Gelethor. And _that_ meant he could never die, never rest. He was in the awkward position of being irreplaceable, the last and only example of what must always be here, in this temple.

The Dragonborn and Serana. Each had understood a part of his situation, he reflected, because each had faced that part in their own lives. The Dragonborn knew what it was like to be fated to a specific role, to be destiny's thrall, willing or unwilling. She too had been conscripted for a unique place in a larger scheme, without her consent, at the beginning even without her knowledge. And Serana was all too familiar with the double-edged gift of undeath, the power to defy time and endlessly defer what to mortals was an invariable and often dreaded fate. But also to bear helpless witness to the events of year after year, until heart and mind began to sink under the weight, like a ship too heavily loaded.

Even so, both Vivian and Serana were luckier than he was, Gelethor felt. Vivian, the Dragonborn, could take cold but certain comfort from the thought that despite any success or failure, one day she would lay down her burden and pass into the Dread Lord's realm. One day, she would no longer be the Dragonborn. And then...judgment? Rewards, tasks, perhaps punishment? Who could say? But at least not interminable "challenges of office," cursed to serve in the same post forever. Serana, for her part, was and remained one of the deathless undead, but it was a choice she had made, not a duty that had been imposed on her. With every new day she was free to choose again, to return to mortality and through mortality to death, if that should ever be her wish, with little risk that her sometime patron Molag Bal would take her change of heart as a personal affront.

There was a gentle tap on a wall behind Gelebor, and a scarcely perceptible cough. He turned to see one of the youngest of the repair crew, a Nord named Loki Golden-bark, standing with his eyes deferentially lowered and a sealed message in his hand.

"A courier delivered this to the first wayshrine, Paladin, and asked that it be passed to you at once. He was accompanied by a man and a woman in dark armor who looked as if they meant business. They didn't say anything, though. The courier also asked me to tell you that you could place absolute trust in the discretion of himself and his escorts. He said that twice, and then the three of them went back along the cavern toward the entrance."

"Did he ask to be let in to deliver the message personally?" This was what couriers had done before, the few that had ever found their way here, and of course he had had to disappoint them.

Loki shook his head.

"No, Paladin. He seemed to know that the wayshrine was as far as he would be permitted to go."

"You haven't left the wayshrine unwatched, have you?"

"No, Paladin. Elaine and a couple of her friends will stay there until I get back."

Elaine was Loki's fiancé. Geledor thought for a moment.

"You said dark armor...black leather with red trim, the face and head completely covered, only the eyes showing?"

"That's right, Paladin. Do you know whose it is? You've seen it before?"

"I've run into it," Geledor replied, in a quiet voice, speaking half to himself. "Not for years now, though. Decades. The courier was right. They won't be talking to anyone."

He looked at Loki, who was desperately trying to control his curiosity and ask no further questions.

"That's the Dark Brotherhood. You saw them, though, so you needn't worry."

Loki looked puzzled. Geledor grinned mirthlessly.

"It's when you _don't_ see them that you have to worry. Now get along now, back to your post, and try not to tell _everything_ to your Elaine and her friends. But none of it is a secret, really. Just information. If the Brotherhood was escorting it, the message is more likely to be important news than bad news. Not that the two are exclusive."

After Loki left, Geledor examined the message carefully. His own name, written on the outside, was in a woman's hand, but not that of Vivian, or Shahvee, or Serana, he was fairly certain. But who else knew where to find him _and_ was able to command the service of the Dark Brotherhood as courier escorts, certainly not their usual line of work?

Something was about to change, Gelebor realized. The wax seal of the message was all that was standing between the way things were and the way they were to be. He could not bring himself to break it. Not yet.

When he stepped into the balcony wayshrine to return to the entrance to Hidden Valley, the seal was still unbroken, the message still unread.

* * *

_The Hearts of the Falmer_, Chapter Six

**Breaking the Silent**

It was still an hour to dinner, and Gjord Glassfist was half-way down his third bottle of mead, wondering what else could go wrong, and what the precise consequences of failure might be. He had a sinking feeling that they'd turn out a bit more severe than simply being shut out of Dawnstar for a few years.

He'd never liked Riften much. Dank, mildewed, and if you wanted anything done of any importance, you had to grease someone's palm. Unceasing moralistic cant from the Temple of Mara, grown fat on its marriage monopoly, and a constant feeling the Thieves Guild had a calculating eye on you, as a potential mark or a possible recruit. _Everyone_ seemed to have an eye on _everyone_ else here. The City of Crossed Daggers. It felt more like the City of Knives in the Back, Gjord thought to himself.

When he had arrived in town, a week and a day ago now, he had sent a polite message introducing himself to the old sellsword, Markar Stone-arm, who turned out to live a bit to the south of Riften, on his cousin's farm. The first message had been ignored; a second one, two days after the first, had been returned in very small pieces, accompanied by a brief note to the effect that if Gjord knew what was good for him, he would send no more messages and ask no more questions.

And that was where matters stood at the present. Gjord had been conducting cautious but methodical inquiries, among shopkeepers, healers, priests, the people who worked in the inns, but his quarry came so seldom to town that most people didn't even recognize his name. Several faintly recalled Markar, but they could give Gjord little detail other than that he was solitary, taciturn, and surly.

Cutting sharp through the slowly gathering golden glow that a good mead could produce, the sensitivity to an imminent threat that had kept the Glassfists alive, father and son, jerked Gjord back to the real world. He swept his eye around the room. And then he felt a perverse sense of happiness. At least fate wasn't going to toy with him like a cat with a mouse.

It was his employer, the Information Man as Gjord had nicknamed him. He walked briskly across the room and sat down at Gjord's table, facing him. They looked at each other silently for a moment, just as they had at their first meeting. Gjord noticed that the other man didn't seem particularly angry or upset.

"We know you've been working on it, but you've had a few reverses," he began.

"You could say that," Gjord replied. "No one here knows much about him and when I tried the direct approach, he threatened to take out a Brotherhood contract on me if I ever bothered him again. Not exactly a promising beginning to a working relationship."

"We half expected it would turn out that way," the man responded, in a brisk voice. "No worry, no reflection on you. In fact, my employer was very satisfied at how thorough you were in searching for information on him from people he might have met in Riften. It's the subject's fault. He's just a little stubborn, that's all."

"As in would rather see he and I both dead than say three words to me. Mind you, I've gathered that's the way he is with everyone."

Gjord began to relax. It seemed that the Interested Parties weren't going to blame this failure on him after all. But what now?

His employer produced a small bag of septims and put it on Gjord's side of the table.

"The ball's in our court for the time being. We'll just have to shake him up a bit, until having a chat with you seems like the preferable alternative. The money's for expenses. You may need to stay here a while, up to a couple of weeks longer."

He gave an unpleasant little smile.

"I very much doubt that he'll hold out any longer than that. Judging from past experience. It's always best to get this sort of thing done without getting pushy, but he's left us little choice."

Gjord picked up the money and slipped it into his pocket. "So what should I do now?"

"Oh, just be here in the common room of the inn from late afternoon to midnight every day. And try not to drink too much. He'll be willing to talk when he shows up, but he still might need careful handling. I'd say four or five days, most likely. He'll probably blame you for the condition he's in, but don't let him. It's his fault. He should have taken the first opportunity we gave him, which was you. You're going to be the second opportunity as well, but there will be a bit of _interaction_ first. Nothing physical, but... serves him right."

The man stood up.

"Well, that's it. The longer he makes you wait, the shakier he'll be when he shows up. But as I said, serves him right. Our master is never very pleased when people insist on keeping secrets from him."

"And when I get the information?"

"Take it right along to Dawnstar. Tell the people there that you just happened to come across it by chance. They'll be too happy to get it to be picky about where it came from."

Gjord had the tact to wait until the man had left to count the money he had been given. When he did, he gave a low whistle and put it back into his pouch, very carefully. That master didn't seem to be wanting for cash, he thought. And our _master_? Who was he?

He decided that for the time being it didn't matter, and called the server over to order another bottle of mead, Black-Briar Reserve this time. Might as well enjoy himself while he could. Work began again tomorrow, but tonight at least he was free.

-o-o-o-

Markar Stone-arm turned out to be as tough as his name implied. By the end of the first week, Gjord was still drinking every night away in the common room of the inn, reflecting that he'd had worse jobs in his life. Still, nearly everyone has a breaking point, especially in the face of attacks that are both relentless and terrifying.

It was eleven days later, a little before midnight, when Gjord saw a white-haired old man stumble through the door and sweep the room with bloodshot eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept for a week. The inn staff knew Gjord well by this time, and he'd told them to direct anyone who asked straight to him. He sat and watched out of the corner of his eye, pretending to pay no attention, as the old man approached a serving girl and asked some question inaudible through the buzz of conversation. Just as he had instructed, the girl pointed him out, and Markar shuffled over to where Gjord was and sat down facing him.

Gjord said nothing, and avoided looking directly at Markar. He was shocked by the state the man was in, and more than a little apprehensive. The Information Man had said they wouldn't be using physical methods of coercion, but Markar looked as if he'd spent a month as a punching bag for some foul-tempered jail guard. Was this a message to him as well, a demonstration of what happened to those who stepped out of line? He was in _way_ over his head, he realized once more, and the only chance of survival lay in swimming as fast as he could, hoping against hope that dry land was somewhere ahead.

Markar was staring at Gjord with a vaguely puzzled look on his face, as if he had forgotten something that he really should have been able to remember. Finally, he spoke, in a soft, wavering voice.

"You're old Glassfist's son, aren't you? Never really worked with him, but I saw you once or twice back in the day, with your father. You won't remember me, sure."

He dropped his gaze again on finishing, and muttered a single word.

"Tentacles."

"What do you mean, _tentacles_?" Gjord responded.

"Waving, snatching, catching me. From the water and the air, everywhere. You wouldn't understand. You haven't seen it. _Yet_. Eyes too, so many eyes. Eyes like clouds of flies. Black and blinking and...black. Black. Drifting around without a sound. Always after you for what you have, what it wants. No _no_ for an answer, not with _it_."

"Are you feeling... quite all right?"

The question sounded stupid even at the time to Gjord, but on the spur of the moment he couldn't think of anything more clever or subtle. The Information Man had said that Markar would need _careful handling_ after his "encouragement." There hadn't been any hint that he might be away with the fairies.

"Am I feeling all right..." Markar repeated absently, his eyes focused on the table. There was a _long_ pause.

And then Markar did something that terrified Gjord as much as anything he had ever experienced in a lifetime of deliberately sticking his nose into danger.

He started to giggle.

It was a thin sound, a titter trailing along the edge of hysteria, and it went on and on and on for what seemed an eternity until Markar finally choked on his own empty mirth and gasped for air. And then he began to cry.

"It isn't _fair_..." he sobbed over and over before he could get the next few words out. "I just want them to leave the little ones alone. It isn't _fair_. They're such pretty little things before the change takes hold and...they trusted me...I'd rather kill myself...they're children... just children that's all... never hurt anyone." After a moment, he raised his head again, and to Gjord's surprise, his voice and expression were almost back to normal.

"I don't know where the Dwemer went... after I retired, I read a lot of books about them... no one knows. But I know where I _hope_ they went."

He clenched his fists in a sudden fury.

"I hope they _thought_ they were going to green fields and peace, and then woke up in some horrible fiery pit that they can _never_ leave. I hope they stay there screaming _forever_. For what they did. What they're _still_ doing. I couldn't stop it. I had to run... took what I could but it wasn't much. I found a book... with drawings, I can't read the text, no one can... I looked for a switch, an engine, controls... _anything_, but I didn't find it. So it's still going on. _Will_ go on, _never_ stop..."

Gjord raised his hand and shook his head.

"You'll have to go on a little bit slower yourself if I'm to understand this. And when I do understand it, I think I can get my employer off your back. But let's settle one thing first. No one that I know of is hunting the young Falmer, least of all me. Not to kill, anyway. To find out what happened to them. What the Dwemer did to them. If you've done the reading you say you've done, you'll know the Falmer are what are left of the Snow Elves after the Dwemer broke them. The idea might be to bring the Snow Elves back, undo the changes. It's something _like_ that, anyway. Not an attack."

"I suppose I have to trust you," Markar said. He made a face as if trying to eat food that was far too sour, but he was safely past any storm of emotions now.

"I don't think either you or the Falmer will regret it. Now, from the beginning, please. The whole story..."


End file.
